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Antonio's gaze meets mine directly. "He said he was tired of living in shadows. Tired of being the spare, the afterthought. Said he wanted freedom on his own terms, not scraps from either brother's table."

The words strike with precision, finding the exact point of understanding between us.

Haven't I felt the same?

Haven't I raged against being Luca's shadow?

My father's second choice?

"I understand he's still your brother," Antonio adds quietly. "Despite everything, blood ties mean something in our world."

I feel Francesca's attention sharpen beside me, watching my reaction. She knows the complexity of my feelings toward my brothers—the rivalry with Luca, the dismissal of Nico as a factor in our power struggle.

"Blood hasn't exactly proven reliable in my family history," I reply, echoing words Francesca once spoke to me.

A silent moment of deep thought grips the room, then my phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen lighting with an encrypted message.

Francesca reaches for it, passing it to me without looking at the contents. When I see the sender identification, something cold settles in my chest.

"Speaking of the traitor, it's Nico," I announce.

I open the message, my expression carefully controlled as I read:

Brother. You need to believe me. They weren't supposed to take Antonio. This wasn't part of the plan. We'll talk when you're back in London. Together, we can work this out.

I hand the phone to Francesca, watching her reaction as she reads my brother's words.

"He wants to negotiate," she observes, looking up from the screen. "After everything he's done."

"He's desperate," I correct her. "The Volkovs are hunting him, I'm after his blood, and Luca would happily sacrifice him to maintain his own position. He's been caught, and he's running out of options."

Antonio shifts forward in his chair. "What will you do?"

The question isn't simple. Vito Ravelli would have ordered immediate execution for such betrayal. Clean, efficient, without hesitation.

But if there is one thing I have learned since the woman beside me has claimed my heart, it's that…

I am not my father.

"First," I say, setting the phone aside, "I heal. We all heal. We take a week to recover. Then we return to London and we stay focused."

I look between them with a hard glare.

"We stay on track. We gain the throne I've worked hard to get, then, and only then, will we retaliate. Once we have full power, we show the Volkovs exactly what happens when they make this personal."

Francesca's eyes meet mine, understanding the layers beneath my words. The plans already forming in my mind.

"But first, we leverage Dominguez's ports to restart cash flow while Sophia works on fixing the frozen accounts. The connections we made in Paris will now prove invaluable. Jacques Beaumont's French shipping routes combined with our new Spanish holdings will create a stranglehold on Mediterranean trade."

It'sallRavelli territory now, but judging by the looks on their faces, I don't even need to say that.

I continue revealing the final plan that I've been working on for months. "The Iranian syndicate promised support during the masquerade; time to call in that favor. Their shipyard gives us the entire eastern channel, perfect for bypassing Volkov territory."

Each piece slots into place: territory, alliances, finances. Everything I've been fighting for.

The throne isn't just within reach - it's practically mine.

And unlike Luca, I won't waste it playing at being legitimate. The empire will run on blood and fear, as it always should have.